tempest
by lydiamartins
Summary: Hang me out to dry, the posters read. {freeverse}


_tempest_

_..._

_hang me out to dry, _the posters read

they are red and brown and all the colours are mashing together,

in the back of your mind, all you can see are his blue eyes.

he's always going to be there, you see.

he's always going to be in your classes - until he's not, until you're in college, you see

and by then, your life is really over: or, perhaps, is it just beginning?

...

you've always prided yourself on your intelligence

or whatever that may be

those top classes, those relatively good marks (in french, english and history)

and then years and days roll past, and you're falling

d

o

w

n

the hole, and suddenly, you're at the bottom.

(and there are the people, the people you hate, the people you love, standing above you, and shaking their heads: and in, unison, they ask you _what went wrong, little miss perfect? what went wrong with you?_)

and what scares you to the most, is that you don't have an answer.

...

sometimes, you feel invincible: like you can do anything.

like you're worth it; these memories are filled with awkward handshakes

and _him _laughing with you, and history class with your best friend.

...

most times, you feel like you're nothing

...

health class is full of girls and boys sitting on opposite sides of the room, giggling and keeping distance from one another

(of course, there's olivia ryan, who's sitting on cam fisher's lap, twirling her blonde hair around her finger: she's not as dumb as she looks, you think. everybody knows that marrying cam fisher insures a fortune: but everybody says that she has some sort of HIV, so, perhaps that makes it okay? everything's very confusing these days, even more so than before. everything's out of control)

you watch pictures of thin girls, too-thin girls, attached to hospital cords

(and at the same time, they warn you of the dangers of obesity)

_being healthy, _the strange health teacher, who sort of creeps you out with his personal life stories, _is what really matters. you need to be healthy to avoid heart attacks, stroke, death, blah de blah de blah. you need to be healthy: that's the most important thing. _

here's the thing, though: he never tells you what being healthy looks like. so how would you know?

on a tuesday, you come home, and stand in front of the cold light of the fridge

_IT IS 11 pm, _your phone calls out. _WOULD YOU LIKE TO SET AN ALARM TO WAKE UP TOMORROW?_

...

you lose yourself in the constant patter of footsteps: you lose yourself easily these days

...

school makes you feel good about yourself

you have bad grades (and your mom keeps reminding you of them) but people think you're smart

you always finish your homework weeks ahead of when it's due

people applaud when you give ten-minute lectures on that church door in Wittensburg (and its significance to the world)

and nobody knows that when you go home,

you rarely ever study.

you sit in front of the computer, watching asian dramas (with eng. subtitles, of course), and eat ladoos and rotli.

...

_the devil's in the details, _the textbook reads.

you've never heard truer words (and spend weeks trying to decipher what they mean)

...

you're in college when you have your first boyfriend

his name is marc, and he's rich and privileged and a complete asshole sometimes, and he reminds you of the boys back home

(which is good, in a way; not really, though)

he's completely wasted at a frat party, and he asks you to punch him, so that he'll throw up

_(I'm not going to punch you, _you say, voice shaky. _Just stick two fingers down your throat, lean forward, and you'll throw up. _You give a weak half-smile to him, in his drunken stupor. _It's as simple as that. _Not really, though. You're not even sure why you're telling him this.)

_you would know how to do that, wouldn't you? _he retorts, grimacing as you recoil.

he subsequently throws up on your tory burch flats.

...

_you still love me, then? _you ask hundreds of days later.

he nods, and smiles strangely. _if i didn't love you, you would know. _

_..._

a light breeze washes onto the shore, and the wolf howls, piercing screams are heard

in the woods, there are the voices (_we're coming for you, _they say)

they do not giggle, as the children do in those movies

they scream and shriek, worry and panic in their voices

and sometimes, you cannot help but think that they are just like you

(so you give in again, every now and then)

...

you make logs (calorie logs, as westchurian and pretentious and silly it sounds)

the woman in white tells you that they'll hold you accountable.

your mother checks in on you, asks if you're doing okay: it's an odd question to ask, because sometimes, you just want to tell her that you had a horrid day, but you know how she's going to react, and she's your mother (not really, you know; she's a stepmother of some sorts, but these days, you barely remember your own mother, and hate yourself for that) and you don't want to give her a heart attack. so, you lie. it's for their own good, you tell yourself.

the logs are filled with motivational doodles and sayings with exclamation marks, words that you've tried to imprint on the backs of your eyelids.

but the only things that are imprinted on the back of your eyelids is the vomit with chunks of pineapple, and the not-so-minty clean breath afterwards (because you can never wash the guilt away)

...

two months later, _you know. __  
><em>

...

_notes: i'm not quite sure what this is, but i just wanted to write something again. _


End file.
